NIKOLE PRYOR

Ashland MFA Candidate

BLACK SUEDE PURSE

The purse was made of black suede and had a bulge. The bulge was a mysterious-looking bulge. It was lumpy in all the wrong places and moved around with each step she took. The bulge looked like a baby inside its mother’s stomach kicking its way out. She held the purse tightly to her pointy hip. She was scrawny, and her face was sunken in. Her jawline and cheeks defined the sharp edges of her bone structure. Paranoia was eating her alive. The secret she held would have to claw its way out of her. If it made its escape, it would demolish everything in its path. The secret would not be kind to others. It would seduce them as it had her with its steamy lovable appeal. DON’T FALL FOR IT!   

No one can find out what is in my purse. If they did, what would they do to me? Would they turn me into the police? Or worse, check me into an asylum. Maybe they would torture me and peel away my skin like I was a banana. What was more painful? The secret holding me captive or dying a slow, brutal death. I think the bigger concern is the consequences of it being let free. Free to make its own choices. I couldn’t allow that. It was MINE. I was to make its choices. It trusted me, but I didn’t trust it. The responsibility was overwhelming. I wanted to seek advice, but I didn’t want to take anyone down with me. I was accountable if it got out of my purse. 

The vibrations of the grumbles rattled her groin. It sounded like a 70-year-old smoker gargling mouthwash. The secret must have been around for centuries from the formality of its hums. She didn’t know it was heard by her ears only.            

The black suede hugged the bulge like it was designed for that job specifically. It had an incredibly thick latch in order to contain what was inside of it. The strap was dainty and strung across her chest. The secret in her purse hoped for it to snap.

It snapped.           

The pursed collapsed and rolled away. It took her a moment to realize it, as she was in denial that it would ever slip away from her. The latch slowly unhinged. The bulge wiggled its way out to take a peek at the world. A man leaned down to pick it up. The secret snarled at the stench of its new captor and sunk back inside its home like a frightened snail. The man’s shoulder dropped from the weight of the purse.          

“Excuse me! You dropped your purse,” The man said.

She hurled herself at him, tackling him to the ground.           

“Get the fuck away from my purse, you smelly stupid piece of shit,” she yelled at him.

She tore it from his grasp and ran away.        

I’d kill someone if they ever found out what is in my purse. Do you want to know what is in my purse? Take a look. No, really. 

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Nikole Pryor is a writer and filmmaker based in Los Angeles. She received her BFA from The Savannah College of Art and Design and her MFA from Ashland University. You can find her work at WWW.NIKOLEPRYOR.COM